


The Baker's Man

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Actual Baking Not Code for Illegal Rum Distillery, Anal Fingering, Aprons, Arthur is scarred, Baking, Banter, Blow Jobs, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Dominant Alfie, Early Mornings, Exhibitionism, Finger Sucking, Fluff and Smut, Humor, John and Esme are far too interested, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Male Slash, Peeping, Pregnancy Kink, Table Sex, Tommy just wants coffee, submissive Tommy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 11:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14789970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: Tommy finds Alfie cooking in the family kitchen and becomes breakfast during an unexpected display of domesticity. Pol and Ada are delighted, John and Esme are aroused and Arthur regrets intervening.





	The Baker's Man

**Author's Note:**

> The thought of Alfie actually baking and Tommy reluctantly giving into the concept was too delicious to pass up even though I can't cook to save myself. Set somewhere between Season 2 and 3 - really whenever you want in the Peaky Blinder verse (Grace isn't active and Michael doesn't exist purely because all my words were taken up with the crack and beloved mess that is the rest of the Shelby clan). 
> 
> WARNING - this work of fiction contains cooking related sexual innuendos, a bit of brotherly voyeurism, a suggested mpreg related kink, subtle references to homophobia that are I hope are in line with the traditional nature of the character/ the time period and a mix of smoking, sexual activity and food preparation that would not pass any respectable health code. 
> 
> I own nothing but my attempt to do this ship justice. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“TOM, COME QUICK!”

The explosion from the doorway startles him, but as always, Tommy Shelby maintains his composure and resists conceding to the warring urges to bolt out of his chair and throttle his younger brother. Slightly flushed from the exertion of bolting across the house, the smirk on John’s lips and the cheeky twinkle in his eye betray nothing of the severity of the situation.

“What is it, John?” Tommy manages evenly as he glances upward from his paperwork, penetrating icy blue stare unbroken as his pulse begins to settle post-intrusion. A glare that would reduce a lesser man to a quaking mess has no impact on the second youngest of the Shelby boys’ impatient bluster, stubbornly crossing his arms with a defiant raise of his eyebrow.

“This is serious business, Tommy…you wanna see this. For once, don’t just sit there with a stick up your arse, eh?”

With a movement that is devastatingly striking in speed, Tommy is on his feet, arms braced warningly on the desk as John retreats from the room and out of harm’s reach. Straightening and sighing as he runs a hand through the short back of his hair, he leaves his office with a regretful twinge and pursues.

“Can’t get a moment’s fucking peace in this place…” He mutters to himself with a shake of his head, cracking his neck as he stalks into the bowels of their ancestral home in the direction of John’s laughter. It’s not even half eight, far too early for this bullshit.

Wandering into the living room languidly, Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets and ambles, refusing to give John the satisfaction of him rushing. If he’s learnt one thing since coming up on the streets of Birmingham, it’s that running sets a dangerous precedent, like moving too quickly in front of a spooked horse – the tone can only be used to your disadvantage.

“You’ll get the kids all stirred up, John!” Ada yells, extending her mothering duties to her own siblings as she bounces little Karl on her hip. The lack of severity in her tone, the almost fondness in her chastising calms Tommy’s nerves in the most indescribable fashion as he moves into the main living room.

Despite the perpetual state of unquantifiable chaos that their family habituates, Tommy exhales with the confirmation that none of the other Shelby’s are acting anymore unsettled than usual. His breath comes out harder than intend when Finn tackles him around the midsection, recovering himself to look down fondly at the baby of the clan, whose stick-thin arms are wrapped fondly around his waist.

“Can I play tag with Uncle Johnny too?” Finn asks, squeezing sharply as Tommy’s heart reciprocates.

Not easily prone to displays of affection, he bends briefly to pat his head fondly before releasing himself from the iron-grip that only a child can possess in a fit of excitement.

“Which way’s he gone, Finn? We’ll get him together, ay?” Tommy’s cigarette-stained voice is even lower as he gives a conspiratorial wink, allowing himself a quiet chuckle when Finn quickly acquiesces and surrenders his older brother’s whereabouts in the next room with the mere point of a finger.

“Betrayed by my own flesh and blood!” John cries dramatically as they cross the threshold, scooping Finn up into a bear hug when he charges him from the next doorway.

Tommy folds his arms and tries not to enjoy the scene before him too much as the pair wrestle. After a short scuffle, John releases his unperturbed younger brother with a smack on his bottom. In armchair, the exchange earns an eye roll from Polly that could almost be mistaken for fondness were she not so determinedly preoccupied with her crocheting and pointedly ignoring them all.

“Took your time there.” John goads, leaning cockily in the adjacent doorframe, toothpick jauntily tipped from the side of his lips, elbowing their eldest brother to bring him into the fray and back him up, “Too much time in the chair, calling the shots, hey, Arthur? Not as quick as he used to be, is our Tommy!”

“You’ll have one right between the eyes if you don’t watch yourself, boy.” Even with a newspaper covering his face, Arthur’s growl is animalistic, ever the attack dog just waiting to be let off the leash. Given domesticity of the setting, it’s almost comical.

“I reckon I could take him…” John scowls down at Arthur, the child-like pout on his too-thick lips intensifying when the eldest Shelby waves him off dismissively.

“If you’re going to fight – do it in the lane!” Ada bursts into the room with Esme in tow to chuck in her two bobs’ worth, “And speaking of bullets, no weapons! We don’t need another bloody hole in the brick work to patch up and the copper’s called for the third time this week.”

Tommy takes this intermission as an opportunity to produce a cigarette, deciding all manner of decorum is well and truly out the window by this point as he lights up, wordlessly allowing the familiar bicker and bantering of his family to wash over him.

“And Thomas, if you’re going to choke him unconscious again, be a dear and drag his body back into the house this time, will you? The neighbours don’t need to see him piss himself in fright when he wakes up. Bad for business.”

The tone is accusatory in the direction of her eldest nephew, but Polly’s dark eyes catch his with a wink of thinly-veiled understanding. Tommy dismisses it with a non-committal hum, neither confirming nor denying as his blue eyes trace the pattern of the smoke curling towards the ceiling. With a soft sigh, her gaze returns to her matronly sewing as Arthur bursts into a hacking chortle of laughter, John crowing in indignation.

“I remember that…!”

“I never…!”

Any further clarification of the aforementioned scuffle is interrupted with a loud bang from the kitchen. The thunderous boom of swearing in neither English or Romani that descends upon them like a sudden storm momentarily, instantly drowning out their previous disagreement in the downpour.

“You best attend to that before it gets out of hand.” Pol advises sagely with a smirk. Tommy catches the glint of mischief in her eyes as her head lowers again and frowns, mind already ahead of him as he takes a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out unceremoniously into Arthur’s half-drained coffee cup.

“It ain’t right being reduced to that,” Arthur mutters with disgust, raising his newspaper again with a shake of his head. He clears his throat when Ada stares at him pointedly, daring him to continue as the raging from the next room intensifies, forging on doggedly despite her rapidly escalating irritation.

“Carrying on in that manner…a man of his…eh… _stature_.”

“Because he’s in the kitchen? It is that kind of restrictive thinking around gender roles enforced by the patriarchy that will ensure true equality amongst the sexes never exists, Arthur…”

“Forget I said anything.” Arthur raises his paper slowly, a flimsy barrier as Ada continues her verbal tirade.

“Dunno what the fuck she’s on about, but I agree.” Esme imparts with a wistful sigh, “Powerful man like that…not afraid to take on responsibility in the household.” Her tempestuous eyes rake with open appraisal over Tommy, who shows nothing short of blatant indifference in return, before she settles on glaring at her husband.

“Listen here, only one oven this bloke is interested in getting his mitts in, woman!” John grins wolfishly, sliding up to fondly his wife suggestively. Ada shudders involuntarily.

“You barely know your way around that one, either!” Esme snaps, batting him off as John makes a mockingly wounded sounds that guarantees the pair will be having the kind of sex that is far too inconsiderate for their thin-walled, too populated house in the not-too-distant future. Unwilling to withstand any further preamble, Tommy strides towards the kitchen, elbowing John in the ribs and out of his path for his troubles on his way past.

“Enjoy making sweeties with your sweetie!” John mewls in the distance, before shouting defensively, “Lay off women, you should be in there with him instead of running your mouths – no Esme, not the lamp!” followed by the distinct sound of something breaking and Finn cheering raucously.

Tommy shakes his head despairingly, thankful for the momentary reprieve from the madness as he slips down the dark hallway towards a different brand of insanity entirely.

The sight that greets him as he opens the door shouldn’t be as startling as it is amusing, but Tommy knows he would be a fool to ever think that the man in front of him could ever be considered predictable in the truest sense of the word. As the curtain of white clouding the air begins to dissipates through the filter of the open door, the hulking figure staggering about, slamming into various surfaces, swearing and breaking things in the process comes into focus. In a setting that would be alarming to anyone else, Tommy merely folds his arms and attempts to school away the smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he leans in the doorway expectantly, waiting for his presence to be acknowledged.

“Fucking ridiculous -expecting to be able to prepare something proper in this – dingy, dismal excuse of a broom cupboard of an establishment. Should’ve just lit a fire out in the stables and sat in my own squalor and ate shit with the rest of the fucking inbred savages. Better ventilation, much quieter company… the smog and swill and the utter desolation emanating from every orifice of this hellhole town might’ve even served as seasoning. Bland, fucking bland miscarriage of a culinary experiment…”

“Need a hand there, Alfie?” Tommy calls, trying and failing to keep the lilt of sarcasm out of his voice as his partner in business and lately in much, much more, stills before straightening.

“Thomas, finished working already?” The almost tender manner in which Alfie draws out his name in greeting is in stark contrasting to his booming projection, huge frame becoming more visible as Tommy squints through the haze, “Or did one of those lecherous family members disturb you, hmm? Let me guess…Arthur trying to catch us mid-coitus again? Were it not for my deeply ingrained affinity for him given his less-than-stable disposition, I would be concerned about that man…”

“Is that so?” Tommy indulges, allowing himself to be side-tracked. It is against his nature to let his guard down in any situation, but he allows himself for a second to be enveloped in the fleeting sense of security that Alfie’s ramble of words taking up all the space in the room always seems to provide.

“…also on account of the fact that I have eyes that work, poorly up close, but still functional, you see? And I get to lay them on you with a pleasing regularity now. Forgoing the boundaries of genetic connection, you are a sight to fucking behold – particularly without clothes. In the knowledge I can put him in the ground on command, I wouldn’t begrudge even Arthur that …though I am heart-wrenchingly stripped of it now. You are wearing clothes, aren’t you? Come a little closer.”

Tommy does, thankful that the poor lighting and what looks to be airborne ingredients, fractured as they are by the mid-morning sunlight streaming through the doorway, cover the heated blush colouring his pale cheeks that is aroused whenever Alfie compliments him, which he does with a constantly insistence that Tommy has yet to bring himself to correct.

“Incestuous insinuations aside, are you trying to burn my bloody kitchen down?” He asks bluntly, deflecting from any further protestations about his physical beauty before he’s even had his second cigarette.

“You mean this ominous mist wasn’t conjured by vengeful sprites?” Alfie shoots back easily, his devastatingly solid outline blessedly coming properly into focus.

“Still sleeping I’m afraid. Too early for spells.” Tommy replies, wishing he could blame his breath catching on the contaminated kitchen air as he runs his eyes unashamedly over the Jewish gang leader’s form and the homely additions to his usual attire.

The sleeves of his regular white workman’s shirt are rolled up to the elbows as per usual, but his usually tanned, thick forearms have been rendered white, doused in flour that also clings to his unkempt brown beard. The regularity of it all makes Tommy’s stomach shiver, the strange sensation bordering on a sentimentality that has lain dormant inside of him for so long that the relapse into feeling almost causes him to physically grab at his middle in its queerness.

“Not magic. So why is it that I feel bewitched whenever I lay eyes on you then, hmm? Have you put some sort of hex on me, Tommy?” Alfie murmurs his name in that gravelly, bedroom ready voice of his that makes Tommy’s insides roll again, closing the distance between them and grabbing him by the waist, pulling their bodies flush against each other.

“Sure you haven’t left the gas on? Might be making you a bit light headed.” Tommy snorts with a shove, putting distance between them and moving to sit on the counter. He wraps his arms loosely around himself in a bid to quell his own body’s embarrassing reaction to the contact.

Sometimes with Solomons he feels like a fucking lad again, fresh and trembling at a mere touch. He tries not to dwell on how starved his body was for contact after returning from the war, still is, if the thrill of a reaction that spills through him at the barest brush of a hand on his elbow or the fleeting press of their clothed hips is any indication.

“Can take a bludgeoning with the best of them, but still can’t take a compliment.” Alfie acknowledges with a throaty chuckle, though the gentle shake of his head that accompanies it reflects something sadder that he doesn’t voice and Tommy doesn’t question. He folds his arms across his chest in a mirroring gesture, dispelling any of Tommy’s concerns with a jaunty tip of his head and his proverbial hat at his own decisiveness.

“Like you can’t follow a recipe, evidently,” Tommy returns serve, slipping into the banter with ease, “Are you actually making something or is this your bid to destroy my family business from the inside?"

When Alfie grimaces but doesn’t answer, almost offended at the suggestion, Tommy takes it further, resting his chin on his fist as though deep in consideration as he stares at the other ponderously. “So devastatingly simple…I wish I’d thought of it myself…”

“Let’s get one thing clear - if I was going to end your family line, you’d know about it, right?” Alfie promises emphatically, all riled up and closing in again as Tommy does his best to maintain his unphased exterior, “They’re lucky I haven’t blown this place sky fucking high with their insistent meddling all morning! Can’t a man get some fucking peace and quiet to fashion a humble morsel for the most beautiful man in all of Birmingham -”

“Fuck off – you were making something for me?” Tommy blinks his large blue eyes in surprise, grasping for another cigarette then reaching over the pop the kettle on as he turns this over in his head. Caffeine is the only forthcoming solution to this emerging quandary. He still isn’t completely used to the only recent presence of Alfie Solomons in his bed the morning after – but Alfie Solomons making him breakfast?

“While you might think me an old fool, it pays to be observant in our line of work…” Alfie begins waving about a battered looking utensil that has seemingly appeared from nowhere distractingly as he lectures. Tommy clicks his tongue in flat disagreement but doesn’t interrupt as he pours the coffee into a chipped mug which he hadn’t noticed had materialised beside him pre-emptively.

“And given that your dietary requirements seem to consist of nicotine and the dismembered souls of your enemies, and as I am yet to have met a human that could survive successfully on their burning desire for undisputed domination alone, I decided to offer an alternative form of sustenance so you don’t keel over ever more prematurely than the ways of our world so often and so viciously dictate…”

“So, what happened then?” Tommy edges in perceptively. The silence is punctuated as he takes a quiet sip of his coffee, the masochist in him savouring it a little too earnestly when the too-hot liquid scalds his throat.

“Come again?” Alfie, for a moment, looks baffled before focusing his scattered attentions on the cup in Tommy’s hands and pinching it with a knowing grunt, setting it out of arms reach so it’ll cool before the younger man can bring more harm to himself. Tommy frowns, but does nothing – when had it turned from aggressive, no holds barred fucking to this parody of a doting, elderly married couple? Concerning, that is.

“To what you were making?” Tommy asks with another drag of his cigarette, abating the urge to itch his arm impatiently, unwilling to show how desperately he wants that damn coffee. He waits as Alfie begins to mutter indistinctly, frowning in concentration when all he can make out are unintelligible mumblings about the alignment of the cosmos, trends in agricultural innovation and the soaring price of coal.

“The flour…” Alfie grunts out eventually.

Tommy arches a single, well-shaped eyebrow in anticipation.

“Exploded.” The older man finishes lamely.

The gut-clenching, soul-warming sound that escapes Tommy’s lips cannot be laughter, wracking his body until he is clutching his ribs against the painful exertion. Whatever it is, it’s enough to startle Arthur into running down the hallway and jam his head in the door in alarm before being dragged away by unidentifiable figures.

“Did the vengeful spirits do that as well?” Tommy feels like his face may just split from the force of the smile on it as Alfie’s visage takes on an uncharacteristic, unflattering shade of rose.

“It’s hardly my fault that this kitchen is as big of a fucking disaster as your family!” Alfie throws up his arms in despair, sending loose flecks of batter shooting around the room. The forgotten utensil goes flying towards its final resting place, ricocheting off the wall as he glowers defensively before starting in on another tirade. “Should be simple to make, but no, not in the Shelby house of horrors! First, the pantry is completely empty because Arthur has it provisioned it with all the scarcity of an underground bunker. All the utensils are stashed about like a rat hiding scraps for the winter. I couldn’t find a decent fucking mixing bowl to save myself, then your entire family comes in to play the unrequested role of kitchen hand on rotation…”

“All of them?” Tommy wheezes out, desperately trying and failing to catch his breath and unable to contain himself from egging Alfie on. He can’t remember the last time his chest was this warm with more than just smoke, his muscles this relaxed without whiskey or opiates.

Ever the opportunist, Alfie has seized upon his vulnerability, moving between his spread legs from where he is half splayed on the counter, stroking his thighs with his calloused thumbs. The deliberation in the motion shows straight away it’s a clear attempt to calm himself. Despite his best intentions, it’s doing nothing to settle Tommy, who is practically squirming now from more than his own mirth now, feeling every hot inch of the hand on his still clothed leg like it’s burning him.

“Oh yes, mate, every major character.” Alfie continues obliviously, tracing an intentionally indelicate pattern up towards Tommy’s hips. Preparing for an onslaught on any occasion, Tommy expectantly pulls himself into a defensive sitting position, legs bracketing the other’s outer thighs, feigning relaxedness but ever ready. Alfie continues with his story, unaware of Tommy’s calculation.

“While I’m trying to fashion the ingredients out of thin air and pure determination which, even for a man as talented as myself, is no simple feat, Ada is applauding my progressive efforts and attempting to get me to sign me up to join the socialist revolution...told her I was done fighting for grand ideological causes, women or other, didn’t I? Then John gets in my face after Esme starts asking me suggestively about the extent of my repertoire in the kitchen and outside of it, and before I can pop him on the nose, Arthur is in there practically physically gagging for a confrontation and rambling about military grade rations while Polly presides over it all silently like the Queen of fucking Sheba…fuck knows where Finn was in all of this…”

Tommy kisses him then, surging forward and capturing Alfie’s too tempting lips, parted mid-sentence. He tells himself it’s to silence him so he doesn’t go on for hours, but the half-assed attempt at defending whatever semblance of honour the Shelby family has left is swallowed up in the heat of the exchange. Caught by surprise, the older man recovers quickly and begins to retaliate. The shift in power is so sudden and the room so stifling that Tommy almost kids himself that Alfie must’ve has left one of the appliances on for too long.

Any plan for maintaining the upper hand goes out the window as his hands weave helplessly around Alfie’s neck as he claims his mouth utterly, delving his tongue past his weakly protesting lips to draw out small, suppressed moans of desperation that Tommy would flatly deny were he ever questioned under oath. That couldn’t be him, he’s never made sounds like that in his entire time on this earth, even trapped twenty feet underground with his life flashing before his eyes.

But he is alive, so fucking alive he’s nearly vibrating out of his skin. When he thinks it’s all too much, overwhelmed but drinking it in like a drowning man takes air, Alfie torturously pulls off, looking down at him with intoxicatingly warm hazel eyes, with a fondness that Tommy could lose track of time in if he allowed himself the guilty pleasure of just lingering.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that concentration is key when cooking?” Alfie chides lightly, peppering Tommy’s lips and cheekbones when kisses when he begins to rally himself to protest, snap himself out of this too delightful haze, “Potentially hazardous, these distractions…” Alfie hums indulgently as Tommy clings to the countertop, trying to latch onto his surrounding and get a grip on himself, arms stroking down his face to frame his shoulders before sliding down to his waist. Before Tommy can form a proper response, Alfie has surged forward with an inhumane growl, his considerable weight all but pinning Tommy to the flat surface as he begins to ravage his neck.

“Must’ve missed that lesson…” Tommy breathes out, hating how wretched his voice sounds (he’s fucked whores with more decorum, men in trenches within seconds of a shelling who better masqueraded composure) as he strains half-heartedly against the man above him. A flash of sweat drips down his back when, unable to gain any actual traction from this angle, he claws pathetically at Alfie’s back and receives an animalistic rumble of approval for his efforts, the guttural noise reverberating through them both where they connect as he licks and bites and sucks, abandoning any sense of time and place and propriety (though should he have expected any less from a man like Solomons, from himself?).

Feeling his cheeks flush deeper at the realisation that he’s spread his legs wider to accommodate the stranglehold, his elbows having landed uncoordinatedly in a ball of dough, it takes all of Tommy’s willpower to resist the desire to concede to this. Because it’s dangerous, this, subtle and striking in its potential for fatality. The light headed, all-consuming joyfulness of the moment is maddeningly difficult to dislodge himself from, especially when Alfie begins a meaningful descent towards his collar with his mouth, one hand untucking his shirt from his trousers as the other begins to wrench at the haphazardly fastened buttons on his shirt. 

"Let’s not get side-tracked further then, ay?” Tommy declares without meaning it, regret blooming shamefully in his chest as he pushes gently against Alfie until they’re both upright. He allows himself to steal one last, decidedly more chaste, closed-mouth kiss as he slides around him and onto his feet, hoping that grounding himself will have the same impact on his scattered mentality. They’re in his family home for fuck’s sake, he needs to get his ever-loving shit together.

He licks his lips thoughtful, giving himself a second to catch his breath. It’s not helping – Alfie traces the movement with a predatory intensity. Visibly ignoring him to the best of his ability, Tommy turns to the mess of items and ingredients on the counter, spying the dough on the floured surface that he unceremoniously landed in.

“Taste something you like, sweetheart?” Alfie drawls, leaning beside him just out of touching range and looking far more delicious than he has any right to while covered in flour and mess.

“Since you won’t give me any clues, I had to utilise all my resources to figure out what it is you’re trying to achieve here.” Tommy mutters, not even believing himself as he dumps the stray ball of dough back into the steel bowl with the rest of the mixture.

“I do like to keep you on your toes, darling, but all that deduction is going to crease that pretty face. Between your cooking skills and your fading beauty, you’ll never find a suitable husband if you keep this up.” Alfie goads good-naturedly, elbowing him in the ribs with slightly too much force and throwing off his rhythm as he begins to stir the batch back together, putting a slight dent in his serious demeanour.

“Suitable has never been my strength. Polly will do anything to marry me off at this stage…guess settling for you will just have to do.” Tommy grins, barking out a laugh and nearly dropping the bowl as Alfie tackles him lightly around the waist, fighting to hold his footing as he allows himself to be manhandled into another hold.

With a lazy yawn, Alfie settles for peering over his shoulder with bright intensity, holding him tightly to his chest as Tommy picks up his stirring, watching the combination of butter, flour and milk begins to combine together. This is getting beyond ridiculous, and were anyone else there, he’d never allow it, but in the quiet lull, their implausible conversation and light, silly affection stands.

“Unfitting…me?! I’ll have you know that I’m quite the eligible bachelor in certain, slightly sinister circles, mate.” Alfie declares proudly, full beard scraping errantly against the side of Tommy’s face and neck as he cranes further over to look, “With my business acumen, deplorable reputation and Godly fearing-discerning, you’d be lucky to have me. What exactly are you bringing to this again?”

Tommy stir gently for some long moments, considering, relishing in the warmth of Alfie’s arms securely around him in the damp, chilly confines of the house.

“My delicate demeanour? My willingness to compromise? Aside from a good fuck, I’m coming up empty handed,” Tommy confesses with a blatant honesty that makes Alfie roar. He suddenly quiets when Tommy bravely pushes up on his toes to suck at his neck, all the while continuing his ministrations with the bowl.

“Death do us part indeed…always assumed that tongue of yours would be the end of you. Never realised it might do us both in! So have you figured it out yet, or are you too busy thinking with your other head now?” Alfie questions as Tommy reflexively moves out of his arms, giving himself space to take stock of his surroundings - flour, butter, cream, milk and an unopened jar of jam that looks suspiciously like it wasn't originally from the Shelby kitchen. The heat wasn’t just his own traitorous need, but the stove warming.

“You’re fucking baking, aren’t you?” Tommy’s mouth is half-open in awe at the delicious irony of it. “

I make bread for a living, what did you expect?” Alfie states as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, reaching out to ash Tommy’s forgotten cigarette into a nearby mug. Before Tommy can protest, he snatches the bowl, replacing the spoon with a flat-bladed knife and resumes stirring with a gentleness that is almost obscene given his nature. Tommy grabs the cigarette, taking a defiant pull as Alfie begins meticulously adding a touch more milk and gently folds the mixture in on itself. His attention to detail gives Tommy a moment to appreciate the delicious way that the motion makes Alfie’s forearm subtly flex as he stirs, heavily ringed hand gripping the bowl intently. 

“Not this.” Tommy murmurs shortly, smoking meditatively, allowing his mind to slip to the other less practical purposes that those hands could be put to.

“Would you mind putting that thing out, mate?” Alfie asks indignantly, stopping to wave the smoke away from the bowl in his arms and fixing Tommy with a demanding stare, spare hand on his hip, “Though you may be used to the essence of tar flavouring your palate on a daily basis, the rest of us prefer being able to actually taste the food we are consuming.”

“By that logic, it’s all I’ll be tasting anyway, so what difference is one more going to make?” Tommy retorts playfully, inhaling deeply in disagreement on the final drag but aiming his exhale at the ceiling before putting it out definitely. Solomons has returned to his intricate task, tongue poked out with renewed concentration as Tommy turns the out of character request in his head.

“What did I say about thinking too much, hey? Give it a rest. I can hear your mind ticking over from here.” Alfie demands, the muscles in his shoulders shifting and rolling with a tension completely in contrast with his actions.

“You said we…” Tommy finally connects the pieces together, unable to fight the smirk that settles on his lips as Alfie continues to pointedly ignore him, “So this is not just for me, then?”

“It’s scones I’m making, alright?” Alfie gets out, exhaling hard as Tommy stares, entranced as his comprehension begins to catch up with him, “That way when you’re finished pecking at it like a bird, it doesn’t go completely to waste, yeah?”

It’s got nothing to do with the expenditure of effort or the ingredients used – it’s far more considerate than that even as he plays it off as otherwise. In the entire time they’ve been doing whatever this is that they’ve thrown themselves into, Alfie has never once harassed him about not finishing food or wastage.

“Tommy, drop it.” Alfie’s statement an undisclosed warning not to look at the situation harder than he already has, not to cast judgement on the unconfirmed. Tommy silently takes in the already pre-prepared bowl almost hidden out of sight on the other counter, filled with an identical looking substance. Thoughts racing, he also comes to the conclusion that despite not smoking himself, Alfie’s never asked him to stop in his proximity.

The realisation hits him like a punch in the gut, winding him even in his tensed state. He doesn’t want the food to be contaminated. Alfie isn’t just making sure that Tommy is fed, he’s cooking for his entire family now. “

"You alright there, pet?” Concern worries in Alfie’s soft questioning as Tommy snaps to again (he needs to stop zoning out like this – it’s going to become an occupational hazard). The stirring has stalled and all he can hear is the panicked sound of his heart attempting to hammer out of his chest.

“Fine.” Tommy returns, nearly cursing at how poorly this is reflected in his clipped tone. Alfie snorts, unconvinced but somehow assured that any sort of emotional breakdown isn’t imminent, returns to his work. Clearly more satisfied with his own handiwork than he is with Tommy's response, he lightly dusts the counter where their previous encounter had taken place with more flour, before gently upending the contents of the bowl onto the powdered surface. He spends a few moments painstakingly kneading the kinks out of the soft dough, far more gently than Tommy would've thought possible with those damaging fists of his, before producing a round cutter that he uses to begin carefully dividing the flattened dough into individual circles.

Unable to stand there for a second longer processing this invasive, deeply personal thread of discovery, Tommy is overcome with a sudden desperate need to make himself useful. Twisting on his heels, blue eyes race calculatedly over the various items strewn over the counter top. Setting a course of action, Tommy reaches up to one of the upper cupboards and retrieves another mixing bowl. He winces a little as he hears a fragment of his back crack in release as he stretches, but the sound is washed away in the melodic sounds of Alfie’s humming, interspersed by broken Yiddish words that add to a song that sounds generations old and unlikely to be heard again.

Refocusing, Tommy grabs the cream and pours a quarter of the opened jar into the bowl. Grabbing a whisk from one of the drawers, he begins stirring vigorously. The mundanity of the exercise in comparison to his usual daily duties is strangely soothing, numbing his mind as his hands pick up the pace and pressure as the contents begin to smooth out. Minutes pass as both men work in industrious silence. The dutifulness with Alfie ensures that each of the circles is even before placing them on the pre-prepared tray and dusting them lightly with flour to finish catches painfully at Tommy’s heart.

"Speaking of surprises…” Alfie murmurs gently once his task is finalised, breaking the lull in conversation with all of the delicate manner of telegraphing one would use when approaching a skittish horse. Does he think Tommy is going to bolt like a startled filly? He does his best to consciously relax his stance as he turns to face the other man, who is leaning casually against the counter top with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes dancing with amusement as he surveys the scene before him.

“Hmm?” Tommy raises an eyebrow again in wordless responses, encouraging Alfie to peruse the thought further as he continues the repetitive movement, keeping the rhythm strong even as his arm begins to ache at the time that's elapsed.

“You’re good in a fight and your hands are gifted in many varied and wonderful ways, but even with my exceptional seer-like vision, this I had not foreseen.” Alfie’s brief smile and the heated shine in his darkening eyes are almost enough to ruin Tommy’s barely put together composure.

“Out of necessity more than anything. Deceased mother, errant father, stand-in eldest of four.” Tommy replies, hoping his logic might dampen the mood a little, douse the growing warmth that’s beginning to spread from the bottom of his legs, touching the heating oven, upward.

“Unexpected but not unwelcome - it suits you.” Alfie muses, eyes roving over him as though he can sense the heat coming off of him, as though he can smell the growing arousal permeating the air with its intimate perfume.

Tommy doesn’t respond for fear of choking on his own tongue, instead sets the bowl down and moves towards Alfie to admire the finished product. He does his best to avoid contact as he picks the tray up to look at it more closely and Alfie keeps his hands to himself, but the slight brush of their shoulders sends his blood singing. Dizzily wandering back to the oven and bending over, he can feel Alfie devouring him with his eyes as he bends over gracelessly to slide the tray into the awaiting heat.

“And what, pray tell, is in that bowl that is so effectively commanding more of your attention than I am?” Alfie queries innocently as Tommy straightens, returning to his bowl. Any intention of maintaining his collected façade drops out with the bottom of his stomach.

“Whipped cream.” He states dryly, eyes clinging to the smooth, thickened contents of his own bowl as he wills his face not to heat up. 

“Mind if I try?” Alfie asks with politely, closing the space between them again. Tommy is all backed up against the counter with nowhere to escape as Alfie boxes him in with the intimidating bulk of his frame. His hands stop stirring of their own accord and the warmth on the back of his legs and growing between them is begins to catch fire in the tight physical confines.

When Tommy offers no response, Alfie unceremoniously dips his finger into the bowl, before bring it up to his lips. Hidden behind all that hair, his lips are breathtakingly plump as they open invitingly and wrap around the dripping appendage. Tommy swallows hard, thinking it entirely unfair to women (to the human race in general) that a man so devastating in every way was gifted with that mouth as the length of his ring finger disappears into the depths, sucking louder and more wetly than Tommy is sure is necessary given the situation. He pops the finger back out with a small hum of consideration and Tommy nearly has to hold himself up on the counter for support as a paralysing wave of pleasure surges through his frame.

“Needs something sweet.” Alfie confirms offhandedly, mirth dancing in his eyes as the hand he was suckling on comes up to frame Tommy face. Tommy’s eyes flutter shut unconsciously at the gesture, hips shifting uncomfortably but still untouched. He can still feel the slicked spit on the side of his face as Alfie moves downward and begins to trace his bottom lip with his thumb, torturously soft as he forces them to part. Tommy doesn’t protest when the finger slides in, obediently closing around it and working the flat of his tongue against it, coating it in his saliva.

“Know where I’d find something like that, darling?” Alfie prods further, face lighting up viciously when he pushes down on Tommy’s tongue and it makes him gag. Despite the temporary interruption, he continues suckling relentlessly, thick eyelashes shoot skyward in an unspoken direction, and without releasing his mouth, Alfie reaches overhead with his free hand to rummage in the cupboard. His superior height means that unlike Tommy he doesn’t even need to reach up on his toes, easily surveying the contents as he slips an additional finger in to join the first, leisurely fucking Tommy’s mouth with his hand. It’s getting Tommy so ridiculously hot, being used and almost ignored like this and he needs to move away from the goddamn oven before he spontaneously combusts.

“That’s it.” Alfie murmurs, and Tommy opens his eyes again, watching him attempt to twist the jar using his free hand and his hip, still moving his fingers forcefully inside Tommy’s mouth, forcing his jaw wider as he squints at the label for what feels like an eternity.

Just when Tommy’s not sure if he can take anymore and remain vertical, Alfie states regretfully, “Going to need that now, love.”. He removes his hand and Tommy allows it gratefully, bending his elbows back to brace himself on the counter as Alfie cracks the jar of honey open with a sharp twist. Panting lightly, his cheeks begin to colour when he realises he is unavoidably hard now and the powerful sound makes his dick jump enthusiastically.

While Alfie is preoccupied with levelling the jar and extracting the appropriate measure to add to the mixture, Tommy deftly swipes a flowered apron from the handle of the oven and knots it around his waist. He’s not sure what drives him to do it, but the material offers a minimal amount of coverage were anyone to walk in and lay their eyes on him in this compromised state of being. Safety in this knowledge allows him the respite to remind his lungs how to function as Alfie’s attentions focus on folding the additional ingredient into the existing concoction.

“Women strangle themselves in wire cages for years on end for a waist like that.” Alfie observes as Tommy’s eyes shoot up to catch his heated stare, sure he would strip the thin chords holding the apron up with his eyes if he could. He should’ve known he was only drawing attention to himself and has to fight the overwhelming urge to palm himself through the thin material. He’s blushing now, half bent over himself so his erection isn’t as obvious.

“I’ll be the one doing the strangling if you keep running your mouth.” Tommy shoots back defensively, but Alfie is already moving determinedly towards him.

“Let’s unpack that particular fantasy in a place where it’s execution is less likely to get one of us accidentally or intentionally shot by one of your family members, hmm?” Alfie suggests salaciously, and the fact that this isn’t a dismissal sends all sort of warning flashes down to Tommy’s nether-regions, lower back coated in sweat now as the older man stands over him, “What’s the apron for?”

“Avoiding mess.” Tommy murmurs, helplessness inevitability rising in his chest as his pale blue eyes trace the lines of Alfie’s lips as he licks them before returning to his face. Alfie moves in to steal a quick kiss that is over all too soon as leaves Tommy hungry and wanting when he breaks the contact.

“You knew that was never going to happen when you willingly came in here with me, darling.” Alfie chuckles darkly, before breaking the gaze and dropping into a crouch to Tommy’s side, moving him out of the way as he inspects the inside of the oven. White knuckles straining on the top of the counter, Tommy does his best to collect himself with all of his blood pooling in his lower extremities as Alfie mutters to himself, something about timing.

“Now we wait.”

He nearly chokes in shock when Alfie drops with a grunt and a suddenness he didn’t know he was capable of onto his knees and positions himself in front of Tommy’s crotch, inspecting the very perceptible bulge protruding from the flat surface of the apron.

“And to think you came in here offering me your services…looks like I’m not the only one in need of assistance, eh?”

Tommy feels his airways close when Alfie slips his hand under the apron to undo the front of his pants, panicked eyes flashing to the door. With his back to it, he is only visible from the waist up, his body blocking the top of Alfie’s head and the rest of him covered by the counter. He wonders blearily how much planning has gone into this, the calculated movements and positioning that have led to him being shepherded here.

“Not here.” The plea is too breathy, already too far gone.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick. Just need to get my fill – haven’t eaten anything since last night when I had you on the bed – or was that early this morning? At any rate, I’m starving.” Alfie murmurs with an almost reverent sigh, pushing his trousers down to the bracket the tops of his thighs.

Even in his blissed-out state, the words confuse Tommy. Nor should he have to get his pants down that far for a quick hand job. Any illusions about the nature of the proceedings go out the window when Alfie slips his entire head underneath the apron and takes Tommy in his mouth.

The shock is so pronounced that it practically winds Tommy when he’s drawn into the tight, warm cavern of Alfie’s mouth. The heat is oppressive. It’s as though the steamy atmosphere of the kitchen and the inflamed tremors racing through his body have all been channelled into the unbearable furnace of pressure that his dick is being relentlessly fed in and out of.

Glancing quickly over his shoulder at the door, Tommy returning gaze is weighted downwards where he sees Alfie’s head bobbing shamelessly below the material. Shutting his eyes in an effort to control himself, he cries out in surprise, clamping a hand over his mouth as a hand begins working his shaft and the obscene accompanying slurping noises intensify, the sound alone driving him closer to the edge as Alfie’s tongue begins to whirlpool, the pace and tightness unrelenting as he swipes around his length.

“Alfie, please…” Tommy groans loudly, words dissolving into a high-pitched whine when Alfie responds by palming his balls, feeling them arching up into his body as he rolls, squeezing and tugging in a maddening rhythm. His hips begin bucking up of their own accord, desperately chasing the sensation as he feels his orgasm begin to build in his stomach.

“Are you alright in there, Tom? Thought I heard someone shouting…” Though Tommy’s entire body stills, Alfie keeps moving with mercenary intent, pulling off to begin savaging the tip with his tongue while his hand coils into an unbreakable fist, furiously pumping the base with his flesh.

“Not now, Arthur! Fuck…!” Tommy’s best attempt at a reassuring call is shattered as Alfie takes him again roughly into his mouth, slamming his dick into the back of his throat as he works him over, grabbing his hips roughly with his hands and thrusting them forward as Tommy begins to fuck his face with abandon. Rather than take the hint, Arthur takes this timeless cue to intervene.

“Now what’s this all about? No point in your blokes fighting about women’s work…” Arthur barges on as he pushes through the door, before freezing at the sight before him.

Tommy is beyond thankful for his partial concealment even as he shakes and his hips stutter, the top half of his body exposed to his older brother’s view. He wants to, but he can’t fucking stop, jerking himself down Alfie’s throat as he swallows him whole, sweating and shaking as he feels the rope of need inside him readying itself to uncoil.

“What the…where’s Solomons?” Arthur asks dumbly, still unable to put two and two together as he stares at his younger brother refusing to face him, fisting the counter in a bid to remain upright as dangerous sparks of pleasure begin to course through his veins.

Tommy tears his head to the side to reply, opening his mouth to scare his brother off with the rarely used entire force of his voice, but Alfie has already pulled off to assume the role.

“GET THE FUCK OUT, ARTHUR!” Alfie booms savagely, the material covering his head doing little to mask his unreserved irritation as Arthur skittles from the room, cursing and throwing back apologies as he slams the door behind him.

Adrenaline surging at the realisation they have been caught, Tommy’s still open mouth is suddenly filled with a desperate, aching cry that bounces off the walls and sucks all the breath from his chest as Alfie reaches around and drives a wet finger between his ass cheeks, crooking inside of him.

The penetration forces his hips to surge forward, slamming his length into the back of Alfie’s throat once, twice, three times before he is coming like a freight train, bent over himself with the force of it. Alfie digs his free hand brutally into his hips, the finger inside him rolling relentlessly as Tommy spills thickly down his throat, nearly blacking out with the sheer force of it.

He’s floating on the come down as Alfie pulls off, barely able to hold himself upright, shivering with an over-sensitised hiss as he dislodges before preceding to cleanhim off with painstaking tenderness. He’s barely conscious when is suddenly kissing his mouth. Tommy finds himself moaning again when Alfie’s tongue pushes its way into his lax mouth, slipping a supportive arm around his waist, unable to reconcile with the heady sensation of savouring his own tangy, salty taste shared between them.

“Better?” Alfie murmurs gently, basking in the relaxed pliancy of Tommy’s post-orgasm frame.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Tommy finally gets out, the closest he can manage to thanks as he tries to keep his head from lolling back, his entire frame feeling boneless.

“Oh, but I did. Barefoot, bending over and basically presenting yourself…then I find out you’re not even wearing underclothes – a man only has so much will power, Tommy. Besides, I could hardly risk impregnating you right here on the counter top while your brother watched, could I?” Alfie snickers wickedly, capturing his mouth again as Tommy attempts to groan out his dissent. He doesn’t have the strength to fight, or the mental capacity to scrutinise how much harder he came after Arthur had burst in on them. He’s not high enough to begin considering why his abused member twitches faintly at the inviting image of Solomons spreading him out on the kitchen table and his seed creating more than just the feeling of fullness, a chemical reaction more permanent than a reminder of their coupling that drips down his thighs for hours on end.

“What can I do for you?” Tommy finally pulls himself together enough to ask, giving in to the subtle feeling of selfishness that is interrupting his high. “

Silly lad, you thought we were finished? Now Arthur will have scared the rest of the family off, this is just the first course.” Alfie grins, lifting Tommy up almost effortlessly, drained legs mustering the energy to instinctively wrap around the older man’s waist. He turns and marches them back towards the table, laying Tommy flat on his back and spreading his legs before moving down to claim his mouth in a messy clash of teeth, spit and moans.

“Won’t be needing the apron for this, then?” Tommy lifts himself up to untie it before Alfie crushes their bodies together hungrily.

“Leave it on.” It’s a demand that has Tommy shivering, bending back subserviently. He makes a mental note to burn Pol’s favourite apron as his arousal begins to stain the floral material and Alfie lays him flat, slowly unbuckling his own pants.

*

“They’re… _doing_ … _it_ …in the kitchen…” Arthur stammers out upon re-entering the living room, dark eyes wide and shot through as he slumps back into his chair, headless of the newspaper he’s crushing underneath him.

“We’re aware.” Ada confirms with a roll of her eyes, “We know you think it’s degrading how two mature, consenting adult decide to spend their time together, but really, you’re being ridiculous.”

Arthur twitches visibly in response, saying nothing in his own defence.

“Have you been into the… _icing_ again?” Esme questions, bright eyes sharpening in concern at the delayed reaction as one of the kids gurgles on her hip.

“Nah, he’s straight. Use your words, man!” John implores, crossing his arms impatiently, itching to start another verbal stoush between his siblings as Arthur’s moustache wiggles with the formation of words threatening to burst through.

“Heard Tommy shouting…behind the counter…mess everywhere…” Arthur stutters pathetically, unable to coherently express the image he’d seen before him once he realised what it was he’d been witnessing. He honestly thought he was coming to his brother’s defence, but the only thing that needed to be protected was Arthur’s own delicate constitution.

Having hear enough, Polly puts down her knitting with a loud sigh, assuming the matronly role of pretending to care about this riveting little interaction.

“Alright, all grandchildren outside now, please! Finn, look after your cousins.” She orders shortly. Grumbling at being left out of the impromptu family meeting, Finn still obeys, snatching Karl and Esme’s littlest from the mothers as he goes.

Once the room is vacated, Polly fixes Arthur with a serious stare, choosing her words as carefully as if she were dealing with one of the infants she had just banished to the garden.

“How to put this delicately…you walked in on them _cooking together_ , didn’t you?”

Drawing in a shuddering breath, Arthur jerked his head in one firm, final confirmation.

“ _Excellent_.” Polly smiles with red-lipped brightness before picking up her needles, “Now that’s confirmed, you can all leave them bloody well alone.”

The collective Shelby clan stood in a muted silence before John stutters out.

“But…”

“Don’t you all have work to do? Children to raise? Issues of actual importance to attend to?” Polly fixes them with her hardest glare as her assorted nephews, nieces and in-laws quickly began to dissipate.

“Was just minding my own business anyway…” Arthur trails off in a shell-shocked mutter, standing, picking up his paper and diving headfirst back into the news.

“For the record, I think it’s lovely that Tommy has finally found someone that makes him happy after that horrible Grace left him high and dry.” Ada affirms with a contented smile that Polly briefly returns, before resuming her novel.

“I’m just glad Tom’s finally getting laid again!” John grins with a pump of his fist that is quickly cut short as Esme punches him the arm, dark eyes sparkling wickedly.

“We’ll go mind the kids!” Esme insists with far more enthusiasm than she has ever shown for child rearing, all but shoving John out the back door.

*

“What can you see?” John whispers, huffing out a breath as he balances Esme precariously on his shoulders.

“Not much when you keep swaying me about. Hold still!” Esme hisses, before finally getting a good handle on the window sill and peering into the window overlooking the kitchen.

The overwhelming silence aside from the rustle of the bushes they were hidden in became all too much for John.

“Oh…” Esme murmurs breathily after an eternity’s intermission.

“What can you see, woman?” John presses insistently, unsure whether or not he wants to know but unable to resist.

“He’s got Tommy laid up on the table…” Esme murmurs with heat in her voice, unashamedly enjoying the view.

“Now instead of a stick up his arse, he’s got something a bit more enjoyable.” John chortles mostly to himself, before shaking his head, “Anything else?”

“Fuck John…he’s using the wooden spoon to spank him while he fucks him...” Esme moans out.

“Jesus Christ.” John squints a little, pretending to reset his feet but attempting to readjust his suddenly interest prick with no hands.

“We should try that.” Esme murmurs before going silent.

“Yeah…alright,” John groans, liking the thought of that a little more than he’d be willing to admit (could he convince Esme to use it on him?).

“Oh…and now Alfie’s stopped and pulled out…Jesus, he’s fucking monstrous.”

"Of course he is, he's a bull..." John murmurs dismissively. 

"I wasn't talking about his manner..."

“Get smart and I swear I’ll drop you!”

“Hang on…he’s getting something…he’s smearing it on Tommy’s chest…” Esme’s tone changes as her eyes widen audibly.

“What is it?” John hears the breathiness in his voice, pretending the straining is just because of taking her weight.

“It’s whipped cream…Solomons is eating it off his nipples!” Esme groans loudly.

“Fuck me…” John releases a hand to palm himself in earnest now, earning a shout from his wife above him.

“You nearly fucking dropped me!” “Hold onto your panties, woman…bet you’ve already got a hand in there, don’t you?”

John’s threat turns suggestive and she rolls her body sultrily above him.

“Don’t know what you- mean!” Esme giggles, and there’s a definite hitch in her breath.

“I can feel it on the back of my head!”

“Just like you nearly dropped me to get at yourself, you animal!”

“If you get wet peeping on my brother…”

“And you’re not?”

“I-“

“OUT, the pair of you!” Esme jumping in fright and John swivelling to the source of the sound cause both to lose their balance and come down in a screaming heap.

Towering over them despite her slight stature, Polly raises a sharp eyebrow that is strikingly similar to another currently preoccupied member of their brood.

“Don’t you have another baby to make somewhere that’s not here?” Polly asks without amusement, only deigning to smile as John drags a kicking and spitting Esme out without another word, scooping up their children in tow and vacating the yard.

Polly shakes her head in amusement and follows them back indoors.

“Not a moment’s bloody peace in this place.”

 


End file.
